


Ostagar

by TheEarlyKat



Series: Warden Leverette [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 07:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6070897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEarlyKat/pseuds/TheEarlyKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Circle hadn't prepared him. The Wardens hadn't prepared him. The battle of Ostagar is not what Levy Amell signed up for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ostagar

**Author's Note:**

> I've been posting a quite a few short things of my Wardern, Leverette, on my writing blog, and thought to upload them here as well. There definitely will be huge gaps, but I'll fill them in. If you want, you can find most of them already on the blog, also called theearlykat on tumblr.

There were so many bodies. Atop the tower they spread like a dark mold across the valley and Leverette lifted a shaky hand from his staff to press it against pursed lips as bile rose in his throat. Darkspawn clambered over ken and enemy like flies amongst the dead, and more scaled the watchtower in search of those taking refuge in its heights. They’d reach the top soon enough and, if he continued to cast another spell, tug at the Fade just one more, desperate time, the corrupted creatures would be the last of their worries and the signal fire scorching behind him would be of less help than it was.

The Circle hadn’t prepared him for this. The Warden’s hadn’t prepared him for this. The nausea and the smell, perhaps with the scent of darkspawn blood and the slick, oily way it went down his throat to settle like some poison in the pit of his stomach, but not the fighting. He could recall no Circle lessons on attacks nor defense, and he had only been waking up with a pounding in his skull and a monster in his veins just weeks ago with no time to get his bearings, no real training.

Leverette’s vision swam, panic rising just as fast as the meager breakfast in his throat.

“No one’s moving. Where’s Loghain’s army?”

Which one was Loghain? Leverette dragged his eyes from the dead on the field to the dead on the rooftop. The name brought up fuzzy faces, flashing one after another, but none matched the sandy hair and long nose of the man staring wide-eyed at him. Levy swayed, held upright only by the walls of the tower and the sudden hands that grabbed his shoulders and yanked him back from the edge. Leverette felt bile seep between his fingers and he wiped his hand on his pants, adding to the mess of blood and bone and flesh. He swallowed back another heave.

“Something’s wrong. There’s no reinforcements.” Alistair’s voice was in his ear, louder than the din ringing sharply in his skull. “We need to go back down, find out what’s happening.”

Down. Away from the little protection the height and broken stairs beneath them promised. Into the pit of the dead and the dying. He shook his head, gasping out his refusal just as Alistair grabbed his staff and pulled him forward. He nearly dropped, then, his legs too weak with fear to hold him up and head too light from mana imbalance to see straight. Hysteria was threatening to overwhelm him - was overwhelming him. He didn’t have the breath to call out to the Warden, to stop the sudden advance back to the ground. His shoulder knocked into the threshold of the stairwell and he dropped to his knees with the momentum.

“What are you doing? The Wardens are down there - Duncan’s down there!”

Duncan was down there, with the rest of the Wardens, coating the battlefield in their blood and their bodies. The two of them would only join them, meet the same fate, and then -

Alistair dropped his hand in favor of reaching for his sword, meeting the darkspawn’s snarl with his own battle cry as they ascended. Leverette tried to stand, would have sworn if asked, but his joints locked up, his limbs froze, and his chest weighted too heavily for even a breath of air to lift. His staff clattered to ground and he thought it was falling until the world turned upside down and feeling rushed back into his limbs in a sudden blinding agony.

He kicked and claws dug deep into the meat of his calf, tighter with each struggle. His scream covered the sound of his knee snapping and he was thrown, sent flying, watching Alistair slice through shrieks and hurlocks besides an oger with a bleeding limb in its hand. His stomach twisted, first with shock and then with fear as something else, something stronger and sharper grabbed a hold of him before he could crash to the ground. Blood rushed hot and fast to his head, giving the land below another shade of red before going gray.

Somewhere, a dragon screamed.


End file.
